Interval
by SemperSomnium
Summary: As an old man, Will has a lot to remember. Will/Jack SLASH. AU after the first movie.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own Pirates of the Carribean.

This is AU after the first movie, and is most definitely Will/Jack SLASH, though non-graphic. Enjoy!

**~.o.0.o.~**

**Interval**

**~.o.0.o.~**

The boys are late.

Will dips the rag in soapy water, rubbing against the chipped clay of his painted-green bowl. Thin, watery light streams through the small window, creating rainbows in fragile soap bubbles and deep shadows in the creases of his hands where they drip with dirty water. The old and weathered wooden shutters are pulled back to let the tangy sea breeze in, ruffling his whitened hair teasingly, and the sill of the window is traced with sparkling salt. Beyond the vibrant green of sea-coarsened grass and the jagged drop of the small cliff face, the sea is choppy, slate grey and crashing out of time; like children speaking over one another, loud and incessant.

The thin strip of pebbled grey beach that stretches out below the cliff his small wood hut stands upon remains empty, absent of two small figures.

The boys are usually pretty reliable, making the steep trek up to Will's isolated home a few hours before sunset, burdened with a pile of wood each and a small satchel of food that may last Will a day or two, depending on the ocean's moods. Lads of little more than thirteen summers, the brothers make the hike from the small coastal town far easier than Will's creaky old bones can, and in much better time.

A few years before hand, Will had owned a small row boat which he used to sail into town to fetch his own wood and necessities, but now his shoulder aches where it had been dislocated – thrice – too many years ago to count. His wrist, too, pains him, and the joins of his fingers, especially his thumbs, are stiffer than sea-salt ruined leather. On days when the pain isn't so bad, he muses that slipping manacles so much in his youth is obviously catching up on him; a punishment, perhaps, that no King's man has ever considered.

So now that his bones ache for tortures he long ago put them through, he is home-bound, the single room of his dwelling the only building he sees. Some days he can't even get out of bed to meet the boys at the door, and they are forced to move quietly around him as he tries to convince his limbs that his creaky, achy bones can hold him upright. Those days are the worst, when he is too far gone into his head to even talk to the lads, and they leave quickly.

But days like this, when the ocean is relatively mild, the pain at its lowest ebb, he is able to shuffle around. Painfully, slowly, he can sit at the tiny table and eat soup with a side of stale bread. The fare is meagre, but his small carvings get him little in the way of trade, and the treasures he had amassed in his youth are mostly gone; bartered or hidden away. Sometimes he is able to make it outside, to sit against the wall of the sun-bleached wood of his shack and watch the waves as he chips away at the finest pieces of wood the boys bring him.

Those days are the best, when he can feel the sun warm his age-toughened skin, can smell the salt of the sea, feel minute traces of water reach him when the wind is right; those days it is so much easier to remember. To remember ships that coasted over the ocean's swells easier than a bird can ride the wind; to remember muscles that ached with a solid day's work and not with a life hard-lived; to remember the satisfaction of doing what he did well.

Pirating may have never been a good profession, but it was one that he loved nonetheless.

Now, bed-bound two days out of five, the memories are all he has left.

With a small sigh he places the bowl in the drying rack and looks again out the window. The waves, vicious as they can be, are calm enough today, swaying together and pounding the sand.

Slowly, he shuffles over to the table and lowers himself onto the seat. The wood creaks in time with his bones, and the waves crash against the shore; an orchestra of age and isolation. He listens to the wind as it blows against the walls of his hut, through the window and rattles the shells hanging on string from the roof. The pearls threaded amongst the shells and foreign coins throw off rainbows when the sun catches them, skittering over the dusty floor and the yellowed, fragile paper before him.

It's stupid, he knows it is. Jack would be appalled if he knew; Will actually drawing a map for his treasure in the King's plain English, as easy to read as a recipe. No tricks or riddles for him; just lines with crosses, and the dramatic flair of 'and here lies buried the treasure of a thousand kingdoms.' In truth, Will amassed far less than that, and before he officially retired a lot of it was traded away, given to ship mates and old friends. But what he left hidden is still more than enough to warrant a map. He knows he has no use for it now, when age leaves him crippled and Davy Jones lies waiting.

His hands tremble as he dips the nib of his quill into the tiny pot of ink, careful to not spill a drop. He has to focus as he leaves a dark spidery trail on the paper; and even then, the line wobbles. With a small huff he resigns himself to having any would-be treasure finders drunkenly swerving out the path he's drawn. Jack would approve. Hell, Jack would be the one doing the drunken staggering, cussing out Will and his shoddy little map and the treasure that Will should have just given him, _what the hell is all this walking for?_

He's too old to feel this way now, but sometimes Will misses Jack so much it steals his breath, and he's left coughing up what's left of his heart and lungs. So deeply, terribly alone.

He sighs again, finishes his line, and starts another. Remembers a time when he could have sketched out a Letter of Marque in the time it took for a candle to burn half away, and have the forgery come out as a decent copy. Remembers Jack teaching him the finer arts of creating illegal replicas in the bowels of the _Black_ _Pearl_, their hands unsteady with the plunging ship and the emptied bottles of rum. Remembers ink stains on his hips and hands the next morning; finding black smears blurring Jack's tattoos and trailing across his temple. Wishes he could go back and wipe them away, have his fingers brush against sea-toughened skin once more. Just once.

There are many things he wishes for, now that they are all beyond his feeble grasp; the hypnotic rocking of a ship over the swells of the temperamental sea. The spices of India and silks from China, mingling in a vibrant display of wealth within the hold. Coffee and gold, ancient treasures and newer art, even gilded books, centuries old. The clasp of Elizabeth's hand on his. Gibbs' stories, delivered on rum laden breath and told with all the enthusiasm of a man who believes every word. The shanty towns of ports the world over. The open sky framed by mast and horizon. The brush of dreadlocked hair against his cheek.

Of all the things he's seen, he thinks he misses this the most: Jack standing at the wheel of his _Black_ _Pearl_, watching the horizon grow no closer as the sun travels across the sky. His ringed hands still on the spokes of the _Pearl's_ wheel, and Jack himself utterly grounded. The most content Will ever saw him.

Of all the things he's lost, Jack is the most important, the most longed for. Sometimes it's not Will's age that keeps him bed bound, but this; this grasping, gaping loss deep in his throat and plunging into his gut.

Most days, growing old doesn't sound so bad; the approaching end so frightening. Most days, Jack is all he remembers.

He sighs as he finishes another line, and sits back in his creaky chair. The map is rough, and the lines wobbly; the 'x' is too big, the compass in the corner too small. Maybe, he thinks wryly, his treasure won't be so easy to find after all. Either way, he hasn't the money for more paper, and his tiny ink pot is nearly dry; the map will have to do.

Will rolls the paper slowly, taking care not to crease the edges. He fumbles with a small length of twine, and shakily loops it around the scrolled length. _X marks the spot_, he thinks as he pulls the string into a small bow.

The crunch of twigs snapping is all the warning he gets before the door of his hut slams open and the boys tumble in.

David, the younger of the two, is still small and fair of skin, with sharp eyes and a quick grin. Chris's plain face sits above limbs that stretch outwards, all skin and bone where one day there will be muscle; Will remembers that awkward time, when his feet where too clumsy, his hands too big. Where the glimpse of Elizabeth's dainty wrist had suddenly seemed appealing, and his blood had stirred at the slightest whiff of flowery perfume.

"Mr Will! Sorry we're late," David flicks his dark hair from his eyes, lips stretched wide in simple joy. "Me mam needed me to help out round the shop, she gave you an extra pastry for keeping you waiting."

"Awfully sorry Mr Will," Chris offers, following David with a wry smile, and the larger of the bundles of wood strapped to his back.

"That's alright boys," Will says, smiles back. Coughs in some vain attempt to keep his voice from coming out so scratchy thin. "Thank your mam for me David. T'was nice of her."

David bobs his head, putting the foodstuffs in the tiny pantry next to the sink. Chris is emptying the bundles into the wood box in the corner, and Will watches as his foot slams down on a spider.

"Don't want them nasties around," Chris says, "almost as bad as the snakes. Da found another in the wood pile at home yesterday, I got to help chop off its head." The boy sounds inordinately pleased. "Ya shoulda seen the blood!" He laughs.

"Chris!" David shouts, grimacing and huffing a laugh all at once. "That's so gross, why didn't you tell me before?"

"Was saving it," Chris grins, "a story for a story, right Mr Will?" He finishes putting David's bundle of wood onto the pile, then makes his way over to the table.

"That a hint lad?" Will asks, smiling at the eager way Chris collapses onto the floor, his long limbs all knees and elbows as he folds his gangly body into some measure of comfort. David bounds over and joins him, thumping to his knees heavily.

"Well, alright then." Will turns so he can face the boys properly, his hands clasped gently in his lap. They won't stay there for long, he knows his own propensity for using his hands to talk – learnt it from living with Jack in the bowels of his ship, the_ only_ ship, watching the man weave stories from air and flesh. For the moment though, he rubs his thumb along the obnoxious gold signet ring on his left hand. Jack had never done anything by halves.

"Where were we?" Will muses, just to watch David's hand shoot up, to hear him shout, "With _Captain_ Jack Sparrow! On the _Black Pearl_, the fastest ship to ever sail the seven seas!" And then add, with false annoyance, "Where we _always_ are, Mr Will."

"You're right," Will grins. "Where we always are. Well then, I believe Captain Sparrow had just made off with the Governor's jewels and his wife's heart, and I was waiting for him down the road, with the items Jack had asked me to fetch…"

Will speaks until his old voice can barely croak out a whisper, and the sunlight recedes to the windowsill. He speaks longer than he normally would, making sure to finish the story before he stops. His hands tremble with fatigue more than age, and the boys groan as he stops speaking, David falling into a slight pout.

"Just a little more, please? Plleeeaase?" David whines, and Will tries to look stern as he shakes his head no.

Nevertheless, Chris rises and gets him a cup of water, and David starts re-enacting one of the sword fights Will had described with enthusiastic leaps.

"Thanks for the story Mr Will," Chris says and offers the water, "we'll be back in a coupla days, if'n the weather be nice."

Will nods, and trades the cup for the couple of wooden figurines he'd finished the day before.

David collects their satchels, still talking about Jack's schemes, and Chris shoots a grin at him before heading to the door.

"Boys," Will calls, his voice scratchy and sore. They pause, and look back at him, questions in their eyes and David's mouth.

Will picks up the tied scroll, considers the shaky loops of the bow. He holds it out, and watches it tremble in the space between them.

"I want you lads to have this. As thanks, for helping an old man out."

Chris moves forward, takes the paper from him. It's David that asks, "What it is it?" His eyes are bright with curiosity as he moves to untie the string.

"No," Will says, "you aren't to open it yet. You have to wait until you get home, alright? It's a surprise for later."

"Later?" Chris asks, and David pouts, "But can't we open it now?"

"No," Will repeats. "Later. Promise?" He looks them both in the eye until they nod, David taking longer than Chris to give his reluctant promise.

"Alright boys, thank you." Will smiles and waves them out, watching them examine the scroll eagerly as they leave.

He hopes they'll at least be in the boat before they open it, knows that they won't have time to come back and ask him about it, not with the way that the sky grows darker by the minute. God knows what they think of his stories, whether they believe them true or not; he doesn't want to see their faces when they unroll the paper to find a shoddy little map. He thinks that even eager, childish excitement would be a pain to him now, when such adventures are long behind him.

He realises that the boys are due to return in a few days anyway, but –

But. There's something in the weather, or maybe in his bones. He's tired, even more so than what is usual for him in the early evening, and his fingers tingle with pins and needles he can't shake.

He misses Jack with a piercing ache, and the ring around his finger feels heavy.

He is old, and frail, and heartsick. Somewhere, in the depths of the sea he has spent his life sailing, his life loving, Davy Jones lies waiting.

He only hopes Jack is too.

**~.o.0.o.~**

**Fin.**

**A/N: **I really hope you enjoyed this fic. Con-crit is very much appreciated, but so is a short one liner! :)


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